


To My Friend I Do Not Yet Know

by Snowgrouse



Series: Devilry [6]
Category: A Woman's Face (1941), Original Work
Genre: Age Difference, BDSM, Bisexual Female Character, Daddy Kink, F/F, F/M, Fanart, Father/Daughter Incest, Femslash, Incest, Inspired by Fanart, Letters, POV Bisexual Character, Queer Het, Uncle/Niece Incest, Underage - Freeform, incest (consensual), prose poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-15
Updated: 2016-02-15
Packaged: 2018-05-20 17:57:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6019651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snowgrouse/pseuds/Snowgrouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Standalone vignette in the Devilry series: Laura's letter to a female friend she does not yet know, telling her about the dark, twisted, exquisite joys she reaps in her incestuous relationship with her Daddy. Prose poem to accompany a piece of very, very NSFW fanart.</p><p>
  <i>This is a letter I shall never post.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Yet I want to pretend that there is another girl, somewhere, a girl like me, who will understand, an accomplice to whom I am now writing this letter.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>You, the friend I do not yet know, to you whom I can tell that my father–-yes, that man you had called handsome, a charmer–-is, in fact, my lover.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>You do not gasp in terror or titter in disbelief: you measure me with intelligent eyes, curious eyes, murmuring “Go on.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	To My Friend I Do Not Yet Know

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ataslightangle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ataslightangle/gifts).



> Dedicated to ataslightangle/filmforfancy, she who knows what it is like to love Torsten Barring, **Daddy.**

[Illustration](http://snowgrouse.aikamuna.org/Fakes/torstenlaurabondagebummages.jpg) (NSFW)

**From the journal of Laura Erika Barring, 1939**

This is a letter I shall never post.

Yet I want to pretend that there is another girl, somewhere, a girl like me, who will understand, an accomplice to whom I am now writing this letter.

You, the friend I do not yet know, to you whom I can tell that my father–-yes, that man you had called handsome, a charmer–-is, in fact, my lover.

You do not gasp in terror or titter in disbelief: you measure me with intelligent eyes, curious eyes, murmuring “Go on.”

Well, then. It is not merely that he sleeps with me, but–-my friend–-that he _takes_ me. Do you know what I mean by “taking?” I do not mean “taking” in the sense the dirty French paperbacks would use it, the ones we thumbed in secret under the covers, making the bed into a fragrant nest with our swollen, sticky-sweet pussies.

No, no: I mean that he does not merely penetrate me, pussy and ass, but that he possesses me, consumes me as he claims me, swallows me whole into his being. The way he speaks to me-–he teases me so that I will gasp out breaths strong and plosive with anguish-cries, and it is as if he were drinking my breath. He ties me up so that he is in full control of my body, you see; artful knots and ropes to suspend me from the ceiling, to tie me to desks, chairs, beds. And there, he licks me, fingers me, moves inside of me so slowly that I flood him, drench his cock and his balls and my ass, so that he can sodomise me with but my own fluids. He binds me and slaps me and whips me to see the blood rush and pack into my skin, his tongue fluttering at the swellings, welts, as if he were drinking in my pulse, too; his mouth slippery over my jugular to lap up my very heartbeat.

And thus, I am consumed, swallowed back into the very flesh I sprung from, dissolving into his blood and his marrow, again becoming that seed which gave birth to me.

And I see nothing sinful in this, no, no; it is to him, and me, the most perfectly natural thing in the world. He says he was more revolted, disgusted at the idea of some scrawny, spotty lad clumsily deflowering me, never knowing how to pleasure me, and I share his revulsion, shuddering at the thought. He was a ladies’ man before I was even born, a lover born and bred: he spoke to me of me as his last, final, most outrageous conquest, one that would crown him the king of all libertines.

Yet, this maiden came to her dragon willingly, and that, you see, is the thing exactly: he would not be complete without me, unable to love any other woman besides me, no other now able to give him the level of perversion I feed in him. My blood sings to his blood; our hearts beat in time, our minds weaving new love-plays with such telepathic communion we often burst out into wild laughter at the similarities of our dissipations.

So, there you have it: my father is my lover, my conqueror, my king; in our incest, he has crowned me queen.

Does that shock you, my friend?

Of course, you do not answer: I have not found you yet. It’s as when I was talking to this doll I had as a child, one I fashioned into–-well, hopefully, she, too, was a herald of you.

For now, I shall seal this letter and tuck it between the leaves of this album, and there shall it stay, patiently waiting for you. For you who shall not judge, but take me by the hand and ask me to tell you more, oh, my sweet friend, my sweet friend to come.

Yours truly,  
Laura Erika.

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr post [here.](http://aikainkauna.tumblr.com/post/139304489133/from-the-journal-of-laura-erika-barring-1939)


End file.
